“I’m here and I’ll see this through, but if we’re going to keep taking on clients like this, I’m going to have to consider retirement.”
I’m not sure how to react to this. Edna hasn’t done any actual work in years, unless one considers cashing checks to be work. It’s a credit to her work ethic that she never asked me to set up direct deposit.
I nod. “I understand what you’re saying. If you have to work, you’re going to stop working, and if you don’t have to work, you’ll continue working.”
She thinks about this for a few moments, then says, “I guess that’s right; I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
“Edna, you’re an inspiration to us all.”
Laurie is of course also present, since she is our main investigator. Willie Miller is here as well, though he has no specific role to play, other than to be supportive and available. Willie has a couple of qualities that I lack: he is both fearless and tough as nails.
The only team regular not present is Marcus Clark, aka Superman. Marcus is a private investigator who serves two functions. He helps Laurie on the detecting stuff, and keeps me alive when I get myself into dangerous situations. Marcus is the single scariest and toughest person on the planet, which is why I have structured it so that he reports to Laurie and not to me. Willie is a black belt in karate and willing to demonstrate it in a fight, but Marcus makes him look like a delicate flower.
Laurie assures me that Marcus will be working on our case, but today he had another commitment. She doesn’t say what it is; it could be anything from lifting a bus to invading Venezuela.
“Our client’s name is Joey Gamble,” is how I start the meeting. It’s not a necessary identification, since Sam, Hike, and Laurie already know Gamble’s name. Willie and Edna couldn’t care less what his name is. “He’s accused of murdering James Haley. Haley was gunned down in the house he was renting on Thirty-ninth Street.”
I go on to tell the group what we know so far, which obviously isn’t much. The highlights, or, more accurately, the lowlights, concern Gamble’s fingerprints being found at the murder scene, and the murder weapon and other items belonging to Haley being found at Gamble’s house.
“Our client has an explanation for the fingerprints, but is in the dark as to how the stolen merchandise and weapon made their way to his house. It will be up to us to uncover the reason.”
I also talk about George Adams and his potential involvement. He is really on the periphery at the moment, which is ironic, since he is the main reason we are on the case at all.
“Laurie, we need to check into something. Gamble told me that Haley was asking him questions about his life in the neighborhood generally, but specifically about someone named Chico Simmons. I assume Simmons is a local gang guy, because Gamble seemed afraid of him. Gamble said that when he had nothing to say about Simmons, Haley seemed to lose interest and concluded the interview.”
Laurie nods. “Okay. Maybe Marcus is already familiar with him.”
The group asks some questions, very few of which I can answer. We are in the very early stages; the purpose of the meeting is really just to get everyone prepared and focused.
Hike asks if I have discussed a possible plea arrangement with Gamble, and I see Edna perk up at the question. Edna is a big fan of pretrial pleadings; a murder trial involves much less work if there is no actual trial.
“I’m going to talk to him right after this meeting,” I say.
“So it’s possible that he’ll plead?” Edna asks.
“Hang on to the hope, Edna. Hang on to the hope.”
Fat Tony Longo was pissed, so much so that he demanded a meeting.
Silvio wasn’t used to caving to demands, but in this case he made an exception. Fat Tony was going to be a more significant player than most of the people in Silvio’s patchwork-but-growing organization, and the Philadelphia territory was an important one.
Besides, Silvio was smart enough to recognize that Fat Tony had a legitimate beef.
They met in Fat Tony’s office in the back room of a restaurant he owned and ate in every night. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, so there were no patrons to accidentally get in the way. The attendees were Fat Tony, Silvio, and an enormous goon whose sole function in life was to protect Fat Tony. The goon stood off to the side, just barely in Silvio’s peripheral vision.
“You don’t kill my people without me signing off on it,” Fat Tony said. “It is not done, and it is sure as hell not done to me. George was one of my top men.”
“George was an asshole,” Silvio said, not about to back down. “If stupidity was a disease, he would have died of it long ago. And if he was one of your top men, you might want to change the way you do your recruiting.”
“What did he do?” Fat Tony asked. “What the hell did he do that you had to kill him?”
“He jeopardized the operation. He set someone else up to take the fall, without permission. So now there will be a trial and a bunch of lawyers will be looking into it, when that did not have to happen. And then he really screwed up by taking a damn dog.”
“A dog?” Fat Tony asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Doesn’t matter anymore.”
“And his wife? You had to kill her? I knew her; what did she do?”
“She married stupid, which means she was stupid. I don’t leave loose ends.”
“Next time, and there better not be a next time, you come to me,” Fat Tony said.
“You’re starting to get on my nerves,” Silvio said. “You should be apologizing to me for sticking me with Adams. But I’m telling you now, do … not … push … me.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Silvio saw the goon start toward him, apparently conditioned to take exception to insults and threats to his boss.
So fast that neither the goon nor Fat Tony realized what was happening, a gun appeared in Silvio’s hand, and in one smooth motion he whirled and shot the goon in the arm, sending him reeling backward. He sank to a sitting position against the wall, holding on to his bloody arm.
“What the…” Big Tony managed.
“It’s in his arm; I shot his left one because he’s right handed,” Silvio said. “I could have just as easily put the bullet in his heart; the huge piece of shit should be thanking me for letting him live.”
Silvio stood up and pointed the gun at the goon, who was still sitting against the wall. This time he was pointing it at his head, and moving forward. It would be really tough to miss. “Thank me. Thank me,” he demanded.
“Hey, come on,” Fat Tony said. It took a lot to shock him, but he was shocked at Silvio’s behavior. The goon, for his part, said nothing.
“THANK ME!” Silvio screamed, gripping the gun tighter. He was projecting a crazed image for effect, but was actually under complete control.
“Thank him,” counseled Fat Tony.
“Thank you,” the goon said softly.
Silvio had come into the meeting with some understanding of Fat Tony’s position, but that had by now officially been replaced by a cold anger.
He put the gun away and turned back to Fat Tony, speaking more softly and under control. “Maybe you don’t understand the situation,” he said. “I am in charge of this operation. If you want out, I can find ten people to take your place tomorrow. And then you can go back to taking fifty-dollar bets on Eagles games. Just say the word—no hard feelings.”
“I’m staying in,” Fat Tony said. “I just want to be treated with respect.”
“Then I’ll tell you what. You stop sending me stupid people, and I’ll stop killing them.”
Gamble is upset. “Forty years? For something I didn’t do? Why are you asking me to do that?”
“I’m not asking you to do that; if I were you, I wouldn’t. But I have to tell you the offer; it’s part of my job.”
“I won’t do it,” he says. “I’m twenty damn years old. By the time I got out, I’d be your age.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say. Jo
ey is adding a couple of decades to my age; he’s either not thinking clearly from the stress, or I need to take Laurie’s advice and start working out and maybe even eating vegetables. On the other hand, there’s nothing wrong with looking old and distinguished.
But for now I say, “So we need to get to work.”
“‘We’? What can I do?”
“You didn’t take Haley’s wallet and jewelry, did you?”
“I told you I didn’t.”
“And you didn’t bury the murder weapon behind your house, did you?”
“No,” he says, obviously annoyed. “None of that stuff was at my house. They lied.”
I shake my head. “Yes, it was there, and no, they didn’t lie. But if you didn’t put it there, somebody else did. We need to figure out who, and I need your help on that.”
“I don’t know who put it there.”
“Maybe you do, and you don’t realize it. For instance, why would they choose you to set up for killing Haley? What makes you special?”
He think for a short while and then says, “Because I went to his house. They knew my fingerprints would have to be there.”
I nod. “Exactly. So who knew you were going there? Who did you tell? And who might those people have told?”
“I’ve got to think about it.”
“Good. You’ve got plenty of time. Like I told you before, write down everything that comes to your mind so you won’t forget it. And while you’re at it, write about all the people you hang out with, and have connections to. Especially that guy you mentioned … Chico Simmons.”
I can see him react with concern at the mere mention of Simmons’s name. But he finally nods his agreement, so I continue. “And if you’ve ever done anything bad in your life, I want to know about it. I won’t—I can’t—reveal anything you tell me. But you can be sure that things will come out, and we can’t afford to have me surprised by them.”
“I’ve never done anything bad.”
“Now you can add lying to me to the list. I mean it—no bullshitting.”
“Okay,” he says.
This has not been a fun conversation for him. It’s not a barrel of laughs for me either. I could easily be talking to—or, even worse, representing—a murderer. The only reason I have to doubt his guilt is the fact that George Adams, who we have been unable to connect to Gamble or the murder victim, happened to bring his dog to my vet.
What if Debra was wrong and the guy who brought Truman in wasn’t even George Adams? She saw him for maybe five minutes.
As I’m about to leave, Gamble asks me if I’ll talk to his grandmother.
“What about?”
“She’s worried and she wants to make sure I’m going to be okay.”
“I can’t promise her that,” I say. This is getting worse and worse; I had to get a client with a grandmother?
“I know. But maybe you can tell her that we have a chance?”
“Okay.”
“A good chance?” he asks.
“Don’t push it. Have her call me.”
I leave the jail and am on the way to my car when I hear a woman’s voice call out, “Mr. Carpenter!” I look over and see a woman approaching me. She’s probably in her sixties, short and a bit overweight. I couldn’t be any surer that she’s Joey Gamble’s grandmother if she were wearing a sandwich board that read, “I’m Joey Gamble’s grandmother.”
“You’re Joey’s grandmother,” I say.
She nods. “Cynthia Gamble. And you’re his lawyer. What are you going to do for my boy?”
“My best.”
“Will that be good enough?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Mr. Carpenter, I lost my daughter, Joey’s mother, in childbirth. I don’t know where his father is, but I hope the asshole has been dead a long time. He left when he found out my girl was pregnant. So I have known Joey, taken care of Joey, for every second of his life.”
I interrupt. “Mrs. Gamble—”
She returns the interruption, which is just as well, since I had no idea how to finish that sentence. “So I am telling you I know him. I know him as well as I know myself. He could never kill anyone. He could never hurt anyone.”
“I understand.”
“So now that I am telling you, you need to tell everyone else. I am depending on you, and I don’t like to have to depend on anyone. But you need to make them understand.” She pauses, and I think she’s about to cry, but she takes the time to compose herself. This is one tough lady. “Please. Please make them understand.”
“Marcus is a father,” Laurie says, as I walk in.
If you had asked me, I would have thought it just as likely that her first sentence would have been, “We’re having dinner on Pluto tonight.”
“There’s a baby Marcus in the world?” I ask. I had no idea his wife was pregnant, but I assume Grandpa Jor-El must be very proud.
“Not exactly. Jeannie had a little girl; they named her Brandy. Mother and daughter are doing fine. That’s why he wasn’t at the meeting; he didn’t want me to tell anyone until after the birth.”
I’ve only met Jeannie Clark once, at a victory party after one of our trials. She’s short and perky and bubbly, which makes her the exact opposite of her husband. But she must be a force to be reckoned with; no one else in the world could refer to Marcus as “my little Markie.”
An image of Marcus at a Lamaze class just popped into my head. He’s yelling, “Breathe!” and every woman in the class is so scared that they’re breathing like crazy. I know I’d breathe if Marcus told me to; hell, if he yelled loud enough, I’d give birth.
“I wouldn’t want to be the first guy that tries to date that kid,” I say. “If Marcus told me to get her home by ten o’clock, we’d sit on the front porch for the whole time to make sure we weren’t late.”
“He sounded really happy; he said she was adorable.”
I have no idea how Laurie understands a single word Marcus says; I certainly don’t. To me they sound like unintelligible, and very rare, one-syllable grunts. But Laurie sees him as another Winston Churchill.
I do have one worry. “Is this going to make him more cautious … you know, in his work?” My unvoiced concern, of course, is that he would be less willing to take risks in the protection of yours truly. I could replace him, of course, but it would mean hiring an entire marine battalion.
“Marcus?” she asks. “I don’t think so. You’re safe.”
“Good. When is he coming back to work?”
“Right away. I asked him to find out whatever he can about Chico Simmons, and he said he already knows a lot about him. He’ll talk to us tomorrow.”
“Okay. Good.”
Laurie comes with me on my evening walk with Tara and Sebastian, and I use the time to update her on my talk with our client, as well as my encounter with his grandmother. “I don’t do well with grandmothers,” I say. “I’m better with juries.”
“I can’t imagine what this must be like for her. To raise him like that, to love him, and then to see him in this situation. She must feel so helpless.”
“She doesn’t come across as the helpless type,” I say. “But she is scared. I don’t think she has a hell of a lot of trust in the system, or in me, for that matter.”
“Wait until she hears that her grandson’s fingerprints were at the murder scene, and the victim’s possessions and the murder weapon were at his house.”
“She’ll have to read it in the paper,” I say. “I’m sure not telling her.”
“I was looking at the forensic reports,” Laurie says. “George Adams’s prints were not in Haley’s house. If he was there, he must have been wearing gloves.”
“Damn,” I say. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“What?”
“Adams’s prints. You’re right—they weren’t at the murder scene because he was wearing gloves. But he wouldn’t have been wearing gloves at the vet’s office when he signed the euthanasia form.”
“Where is it?”
“Dowling still has it; Debra gave it to him, and he said he was keeping it in the office safe. It’s worth a shot. If we can get those prints, then we will know for sure it was him with Truman.”
I’d like to hurry back home to put this into motion, but Sebastian has other ideas. He is very particular about where he will piss, and also moves incredibly slowly. He doesn’t exactly plod; it’s slower than that. He sort of oozes, like slow-moving, hairy lava.
But we finally make it back, and I call Dowling, who confirms that the euthanasia form is still in his safe. I tell him not to touch it, and that we will have someone there in the morning to try to get fingerprints off of it.
Meanwhile, Laurie is on the phone with Rob Flory, a retired cop who worked with her on the police force. Rob was in forensics and is occasionally called upon by lawyers like me as an expert witness. Rob agrees to go to Dowling’s office in the morning to do what we need done.
Laurie will go down there as well to make sure that all goes smoothly. She’ll also chronicle the whole operation on video so there will be a record of it, though that isn’t totally necessary. Flory has a great deal of credibility and would be difficult for Dylan to challenge if he testifies.
I’ll be at the arraignment in the morning, but we won’t have any answers about the prints in the moment anyway. There will certainly be some prints; it will just be a question of determining whose they are. Flory will be helpful in that also; he’ll have friends currently in forensics, most of whom learned under him, who will run the found prints through the system.
Also, the prints will remain on the piece of paper, if they’re there in the first place, so the prosecution could always have their own experts examine it.
I’m very hopeful about the possibility of finding Adams’s prints, and I say so to Laurie.
She pours a little cold water on it by saying, “Of course, even if Adams’s prints are on the form, all it proves is that he had Truman. It doesn’t mean he killed Haley, or that Joey didn’t.”
“True, but it connects Adams to our case, which will make testimony and evidence about him admissible in Joey’s trial. Debra’s identification of him could be challenged; his prints can’t.”
Bark of Night Page 6
